


Tumblr Prompts

by TheoMiller



Category: Knight & Rogue - Hilari Bell
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fake Marriage, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Sevenson Family Gatherings, Thanksgiving Dinner, White Collar Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheoMiller/pseuds/TheoMiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Leslie, AKA illumineangel.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Office AU - Intern!Michael, Boss!Fisk

**Author's Note:**

> For Leslie, AKA illumineangel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Fisk has a thing for his intern, and his sisters are terrible people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Email format, office AU, lawyer!Judith.

TO: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: legal advice needed

Can you link me to all the law codes pertinent to employer/employee relationships?

TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: Re: legal advice needed

Only if you tell me why you need it. And don’t lie. I’ll know if you do.

TO: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: hahaha no

Just send me the links.

TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: are we really going to communicate with the subject line???

Not unless you tell me.

TO: Anna ([anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com](mailto:anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: Judith

I asked Judith to send me something and now she’s using it to blackmail me.

TO: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
FROM: Anna ([anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com](mailto:anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com))   
SUBJECT: petty sibling rivalry

Stop blackmailing Nonny.

TO: Anna ([anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com](mailto:anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: Re:petty sibling rivalry

Fisk asked me to send him the links on law code pertaining to employer/employee relationships and refuses to say why, but sure, let’s focus on a harmless bit of coercion.

  
TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Anna ([anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com](mailto:anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com))   
SUBJECT: Re: Judith

Nonny!

  
TO: Anna ([anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com](mailto:anna.fisk.maxwell@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
SUBJECT: whoops

I swear, this time, I haven’t done anything.

TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: never has my email address been more true

You’re getting sloppy, little brother. Calling Anna in? That’s Bush league.

TO: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
SUBJECT: worth a shot

Now that you’ve gotten Anna angry at me, can you send me the links?

TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: a cheap shot

Nope. Not until you tell me her name. Or is it his?

TO: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
SUBJECT: I concede

His name is Michael and he’s an intern. Now tell me what the laws are, so I can figure out how to bend them.

TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Judith ([thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com](mailto:thesmarterfisk@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: all the double entendre I could make about bending

Here you go!

[attachment]  _employer conduct law.rtf_

-

TO: Michael ([theknighterrant@twomoons.com](mailto:theknighterrant@twomoons.com))  
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
SUBJECT: [none]

My office. Now.

TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Michael ([theknighterrant@twomoons.com](mailto:theknighterrant@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: Re:

…why?

TO: Michael ([theknighterrant@twomoons.com](mailto:theknighterrant@twomoons.com))  
FROM: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
SUBJECT: I finished my research

And since I have no control over your wages, there’s no legal reason why you can’t be in my office making out with me right. now. Or thirty seconds ago, if you’d just followed directions.

TO: Fisk ([ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com](mailto:ionlyhavetwosisters@twomoons.com))   
FROM: Michael ([theknighterrant@twomoons.com](mailto:theknighterrant@twomoons.com))  
SUBJECT: You could’ve just said it in the original email and then we wouldn’t have had to exchange so many emails

I’ll be right there.

-

(BONUS - text message)


	2. For Jo - Celebrity AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Michael leads two lives and Fisk is a fan of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Royal Family AU, band!AU, genderfluid!Michael, bisexual!Fisk.

The Irony is Fisk’s favourite place in the world. It’s a dingy, hole-in-the-wall pub run by a tapster named Ham, of all things, and more often than not someone tries to steal Fisk’s wallet, but the atmosphere is a “fuck off” sort of attitude, and Fisk can appreciate that. Especially since his even dingier flat is in the same building. But it’s usually got shit taste in live entertainment, so Fisk’s not even paying attention to the girl who climbs onto the stage with her guitar slung across her chest and her bandmates following her.

He does chuckle, when what follows is the opening of Taylor Swift song, done for the soundtrack of some movie. But instead of the breathy, too-high attempts at singing in Swift’s octave, the girl sings it in a warm, soothing baritone.

Fisk pauses, pleasantly surprised, and then grins. “Huh,” he says, and returns to his pint of bitter.

The Taylor Swift song is replaced by classic rock, and Fisk’s keeping a running count of genres by the time they take a break. Fisk moves his book out of the singer’s way when she comes to take the empty seat between him and Jonas Bish. “Whiskey sour, please,” she says.

“Right up,” says Ham.

Fisk casts a curious glance over her. Her guitar is expensive, her hair – it’s curled right now, but it looks like it’s about shoulder length when straight – smells faintly of argan oil, and her perfume smells… Fisk’s a bit rusty at pricing perfumes, but he’s pretty sure it’s Bvlgari fragrance, which runs at sixty quid for an ounce and a half. But she’s wearing cheap clothes, cheap jewelry, and her manicure is a home one.

She takes her drink from Ham and downs it in one go. Fisk watches her prominent Adam’s apple bob and then clears his throat, letting his book fall shut. “You’re not bad.”

“Thanks, I think,” she says, with a bemused tilt to her smile.

He nods to her empty glass. “Need a refill?”

“No, thank you,” she tells him. “Just needed the liquid courage. Ah, and we’re back on in a few seconds.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” Fisk says, on impulse, before the girl can slip away to rejoin her bandmates.

“It’s Mica,” she tells him.

Mica’s drummer is still on the stage, entertaining the crowds. She’s got her hair tucked into a beanie, and he can tell by the way they refract light that her horn-rimmed glasses are prescription. “Next, our darling Mica will play you one of our original songs.”

Mica’s cheeks are flushing, enough to be seen through her makeup, as she takes over the microphone. “This, uh. It’s called ‘Where the Red Line Met the Green’.”

The song, it turns out, is about American uni students falling in love on the train, and even though it’s obviously not autobiographical, a truly astounding amount of emotion bleeds through the song. Fisk has almost forgotten to listen in favour of watching Mica’s face when her gaze flickers to meet his just when she sings the line,  _where you met me_.

He’s still trying to figure out if he’s reading too much into a glance from an attractive stranger when the drummer and the keyboarder give Mica a little shove, and she stumbles in his direction. The flush is creeping up her ears. “Do you, um… do you want to get a drink?”

“Come back when you’re sure that you want to,” he tells her, because he remembers kissing boys he hated just because friends wanted him to ‘get some action’.

Fisk turns back to his book, trying to focus on the words there, and she doesn’t move. “I am,” she says. “I am sure.”

“I’m here every day after work. When you can approach me without a shove, I’ll buy you a drink.”

-

Work is hellish. They’re preparing for a visit from the prince, who’s regrettably, well, English, for all that he’s the least objectionable member of the royal family. The more active members of the party have been calling all day, making suggestions for some anatomically improbable things the prince can do, or asking that they convince the prince to declare Scotland an independent country.

“No, I’m afraid I  _can’t_  tell the prince to—actually, I can’t even repeat what you just said, I don’t have a quid for the swear jar.”

“Yes, I know you’re upset about the referendum, but the prince can’t change anything.”

“Sir, this is the London office, you’ll want to direct that question to your local branch.”

Rudy, another intern, snickers when he hangs up. “Is he asking for us to send one of the MP’s men to him?”

“Yep,” sighs Fisk. “Fifth time this week, same bloke.”

The sound of Gloria bitching someone out filters through into the main room of the office, and a moment later she comes storming in and says, “He won’t listen to reason, the bastard.”

“I explained—” the man—who is, incidentally, Prince Michael Arthur Septimus O’Dair Sevenson, Duke of Albany, Knight of the Order of the Garter, Knight Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order, Aide-de-Camp—says, sounding exasperated, only to break off.

“It’s all right,” says Fisk, quickly. “You’re hardly a threat. You don’t even have to re-conquer Scotland, since they voted to stay.”

“Shame, I was looking forward to squashing violent rebellions,” the prince teases, and then his bodyguards are swarming the place and giving off passive aggressive airs, as it seemed he’d deliberately ditched them, and Fisk doesn’t really get to  _talk_  to him.

Which is probably for the best, because right now Fisk can pretend the bloke is just his photoshoots (hot), his human rights activism (impressive), and his surprisingly good sense of humour (also hot), instead of the smarmy, rich bastard he’s pretty much guaranteed to be (not hot).

All right, so, maybe Fisk’s a bit of a fanboy. But that just means it’s all for the better if he doesn’t have to deal with Prince Michael turning out to be another one of those teenage crushes who are really assholes.

Except the prince leaves a piece of paper on Fisk’s desk, with what appears to be his personal mobile number, signed just as  _Michael_.

-

Fisk has a few hours before Mica’s next booked at The Irony, so somehow he ends up dialing the number. “Hi,” the prince says, breathless, after just one ring.

“Uh, hey,” says Fisk. “Where are you? It sounds loud.”

“Just a pub,” he says.

“ _You_ ’re in a  _pub_? Prince Michael, in a pub? Don’t you have liquor in your million-quid flat?”

“I’m meeting someone,” says the prince, sounding cross. “And it’s just Michael, please.”

“Michael,” Fisk says.

There’s a strange pause on the other end. Then, “I’m meeting someone at a pub in a bit, actually, if she shows.”

“Bloke like you? She’ll show,” says Michael.

“Maybe,” allows Fisk. “So, who are you meeting?”

“It’s kind of a funny story. Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really.”

Michael huffs, the sound crackling through Fisk’s mobile’s speakers. “The girl you met last night is standing on your doorstep.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” says Fisk, but he’s unlocking the door to his tiny flat, and Mica lowers the phone from her ear.

And Fisk’s clearly an idiot, to have missed this, this downright Shakespearean turn of events, because now that he’s looking at Mica beyond the Irony’s dim lighting, it’s blindingly obvious. Gods, he’s an idiot. 

Expensive hair care products, cheap clothes, it all reeked of a rich kid whose parents didn’t support their gender identity.  _Mica_ , gods, this is painful, this has got to be the dumbest thing Fisk has ever done, and Fisk was one of the idiots who actually held hope out for a free Scotland, how did he not see this?

“I swear, it was not my intent to be dishonest with you, I wasn’t expecting this to happen, and I had to wait to come clean. And I’m terribly sorry about looking up your address, it was an invasion of privacy, and I’ll pay for it if you want to relocate, and I swear I’ll never look you up again if you do. And… And you probably have questions.”

“Just two,” Fisk says. Because it’s true, everything else seems pretty self-evident. “Mica or Michael, first of all?”

“Mica,” says Mica, and her smile is blinding.

“Secondly, are you sure?”

The answer to that comes in the form of Mica surging forward and leaning down to kiss Fisk. When they break away, Fisk takes her hand and gently tugs her inside. “I think I promised you a drink, princess.”


	3. For Anon - Fake Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Michael is a liar and they're both oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake Relationship, Thanksgiving, family gatherings.

"It’s just for Thanksgiving."

"You told your parents we were  _dating_.”

"Married, actually."

"You told your parents we’re married, and—wait, hang on, they believed that? You’re hardly the sort to elope two weeks into a relationship."

"Well, the thing is, I… first told them we were dating a year or so ago, for the same reason, and things escalated this year, so I said we were married."

"You keep mentioning a reason, I’ve yet to see reason to anything you do, least of all  _this_.”

Fisk is actually rather flushed with annoyance, glaring at Michael, who shrugs uncomfortably. “It’s just… all my brothers are growing up and getting married, and Rosamund’s got Rudy. And I don’t even have Kathy’s excuse for being single. I’m just. Single. And there’ll be teasing and pity and concern and I really just can’t deal with it.”

"Because pretending to date your best friend is less pathetic than not having a romantic partner at all," snaps Fisk.

"Best friend, huh?"

"Shut up. Wait, did you tell Kathy and Rosa this too?"

"…Maybe?"

"No wonder they’ve been acting so weirdly! Gods, Mike, of all your ridiculous schemes…"

"But you’ll do it, right?"

Fisk sighs, and Michael feels more guilty than ever. “I will, gods help me. But you’ll owe me. BIG TIME.”

———

Which is how they end up making the road trip out to western Pennsylvania. AKA deep,  _deep_  Amish country.

The Sevensons - well, the Sevenson parents - live on a sprawling bit of property outside a quaint little town. The lodge is spectacular, and it has a  _guest book_ , maintained by various owners to keep track of the various rich and/or famous people who visit.

It’s about an hour away from the nearest supermarket, which is from a chain Fisk’s never even  _heard of_ , and this apparently considered well-populated compared to the area.

Michael is uncharacteristically tight-lipped few hours it takes to go from northern Virginia to a place whose claim to fame is a fish hatchery. Hundreds of miles inland.

Finally, Michael pulls into a Sheetz parking lot and reaches into the glove compartment wordlessly. Fisk aimlessly wonders if this is about to turn into a random, guilt-induced murder-suicide, and then Michael’s holding a ring box.

Fisk’s chest is uncomfortably tight as Michael just holds the box for a second, in all its faux-red-velvet, linty glory, and then Michael opens it with both hands. He’s got slim hands, all bones and prominent knuckles and ice-blue veins. They’re nice, Fisk supposes. Pretty hands, for a guy.

The rings are plain silver, Michael’s band - because it must be Michael’s, it wouldn’t fit over Fisk’s pinky - is thinner than Fisk’s, probably so it doesn’t overwhelm aforementioned hands.

"Here," Michael says, holding out a hand, and it’s one of the first things Michael has said to him all day, so Fisk doesn’t argue when he offers Michael his left hand so he can put the ring on.

It’s cold against Fisk’s skin, sliding a little roughly over his knuckle before it fits comfortably around the base of Fisk’s finger. The cold must travel up his veins like IV medication, because his chest gets even tighter, like he’s been submerged in cold water. Or, you know, the snowdrifts outside.

"I feel like a Celine Dion song should be playing," Fisk whispers, and Michael laughs, and the spell is broken.

Michael puts the other ring on by himself, and Fisk croons out what little he remembers of My Heart Will Go On. Namely the “my heart will go on” part.

-

Michael’s mother has always been emotionally unavailable, his father always too quick to convey his emotions towards Michael, usually disappointment and/or anger, but his siblings and cousin-turned-foster-sibling are Michael’s favourite people, beyond Fisk.

"Aww, Little Mikey!" Justin crows when Michael climbs out of the car.

Okay, so, most of his siblings.

Benton’s fiance(e) Kirit is an doctoral candidate who’s genderfluid but feminine, and seems genuinely excited to meet Michael. Fisk asks her about her thesis and which pronouns he should use (“she”, she says).

Kathy flicks Fisk on the nose after she’s done hugging Michael, and he ruffles her hair fondly. It’s short now, and dyed silver. Michael’s long since gotten used to the fact that Kathy has a different hairstyle every time he sees her.

Justin’s wife Amelia is an overly effusive woman who insists upon calling Fisk “Nonny”, and Rupert’s wife Sarah reminds Michael uncomfortably of his father, all pursed lips and disapproving glances. Mainly at Kirit and Kathy, who were now talking excitedly while Fisk dragged tales of archaeology department drama out of Benton.

But Michael manages to make it through all the polite smiling and attempts to get to know his brothers’ partners better, and somehow they’re inside where Rosamund is entertaining Justin’s two children, her own pregnant belly just barely starting to show.

She smiles sweetly at Michael and Fisk, and Rudy - the man responsible for the shotgun wedding a month or so previous - shakes Michael’s hand rather nervously.

Dinner is served not long after, and Michael finds himself holding hands with Kathy and Fisk while making eye contact with Kirit, who’s smiling down at her plate while his father thanks god for the meal.

Beside him, Fisk is wearing a fixedly polite mask as he echoes the “amen” and pretends he’s just now opening his eyes, and Michael squeezes Fisk’s hand apologetically before dropping it.

-

Fisk’s almost forgotten they were perpetrating a ruse, pretending to be newlyweds instead of - roommates, best friends, partners in crime - until Michael squeezes his hand after the prayer.

So he lets himself bleed into Michael’s space, brushing their arms together when he reaches for the rolls, leaning close when he has something to tease Michael about, resting his fingertips on Michael’s wrist whenever he asks Michael to pass some dish his way.

Michael stops tensing up after the first couple of times, and he plays into it, reaches over to rub a hand up Fisk’s spine the way that threatens to send Fisk to sleep, even kisses Fisk on the nose when Fisk is jokingly complaining about Kathy abusing him earlier.

It’s a good ruse, doesn’t even require much effort, and Fisk is actually sort of uncomfortable with how easy it is. When something is going easy, it usually means you just haven’t figured out where it’s gone terribly wrong yet.

But this is Michael. Pretending to be married to Michael isn’t that hard. When Michael’s father asks about their plans for Christmas, Fisk knows that Michael’s volunteering at an animal shelter so the volunteers can go home to their families.

When Kathy asks Fisk who proposed to whom, and  _how_ , Michael says he bought Fisk a bottle of white zinfandel and took him to the Jefferson monument and proposed to him there, and Fisk isn’t even surprised that Michael knows his favourite wine and his favourite place. It’s actually… flattering, somehow. It makes something warm unfurl in Fisk’s chest, like…

Oh,  _shit_.

Fisk bites the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting to the realisation that hits him like blunt force trauma:  _he’s in love with Michael_.

————

Fisk is subdued after dinner, and takes Kathy up on her suggestion that they wander the grounds, while Michael is left sitting with Rosamund, poring over the guestbook to see if there’s a name that strikes her fancy there.

She quite likes the name Charles, until a somewhat tipsy Benton informs her that Charles Lindbergh hid at the Sevenoaks Lodge after his son was kidnapped. Then it becomes somewhat awkward.

Michael doesn’t see Fisk much until they meet up in their shared guestroom. Fisk hesitates before he climbs into the bed beside Michael, which is strange, because it’s hardly the first time they’ve shared a bed. Maybe this ridiculous marriage ruse is upsetting him, Michael thinks.

"I’m gonna come clean after Thanksgiving," Michael says quietly.

Fisk’s sigh, when it comes, isn’t as exasperated as Michael expected. He wants to believe it’s wistful, that Fisk wants Michael to want this to be real as much as Michael wants Fisk to want this to be real. But this is Fisk.

"Thank you," Michael murmurs eventually. "You’re the best friend a man could ask for, Fisk."

Fisk is pretending to be asleep, so Michael dozes off.

He wakes with his mouth pressed against Fisk’s collarbone, which is a teensy bit drool-covered. They’re a warm, tangled mess under the covers, but Michael drags himself away. Fisk shifts in his sleep to sprawl stomach-first across the bed, and Michael drags the blankets up over his sleeping friend.

—-

Fisk wakes up to the smell of blueberry pancakes on Day Two Of Knowing He’s Stupidly In Love With His Best Friend.

Fisk loves blueberries.

It draws him into the kitchen, where the Sevensons (all morning people, the bastards) are wide awake and eating at the table there.

"Do you want some?" Michael says, smiling at him.

Fisk nods. He thinks it’s safer not to talk.

Kathy is watching them curiously. Probably wondering what romantic love is like, if it’s all it’s cracked up to be, and Fisk desperately wants to tell her that it’s a sham, that Michael’s no more in love than she is.

"I love you," Fisk says, when Michael hands him a stack of blueberry pancakes. It’s too intense, too real, his voice cracks, it’s not a normal newlywed I love you, because it’s not part of the ruse, and it sounds real. Realer than anything he’s said in days.

"I love you," Michael replies.

And Fisk… blinks. Because that, that’s all Michael, that’s earnest and honest and all those other -ests that Michael is.

Michael cups his face and kisses him and it’s their first kiss and it’s dry and quick and chaste and Fisk still feels like Michael just gunned it over one of those Pennsylvania hills, his stomach swooping and heart pounding.

—-

"This is real, right?" Fisk murmurs, when they climb into Michael’s car.

Michael feels like crying with how happy he is, and he holds Fisk’s hand, the one with the fake wedding ring, and says, “This is real.”

"I love you."

"I love you."


	4. Stuck At An Airport (for Jo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conman!Fisk, surgeon!Michael, empty airport terminal.

"You look like you could use some proper food," someone said.

Fisk looked up. The man was about his age, probably younger, wearing jeans and a sweater. The sweater is vneck, so Fisk can see he's wearing a scrubs shirt under it. A little young to be a doctor, surely. Or maybe the shy smile is just making him seem younger.

"Hah, yeah, I'll just have some when we get to Guatemala,” said Fisk. He wasn’t sure what Guatemalan cuisine consisted of, but he was hungry enough that he’d eat anything.

But the other guy persisted. "That's going to be hours. I'll pay, come on."

Usually, Fisk would've told him to piss off. But given that his flight was delayed and he had no idea how long it would take the FBI to catch up, this could be his last meal as a free meal for a very long time. And he didn't have any unmarked bills to pay for food.

"Okay," he said.

"I'm Michael."

"Fisk."

They shook hands, and Fisk noted the callouses on Michael’s hands – only on his first two fingertips, so he did delicate work with one hand. Not an FBI agent, then. A surgeon.

Michael took him to the actual restaurant rather than one of the fast food places, which was when Fisk figured out that this was a one night stand. Not that he was complaining. Michael's face was reasonably handsome, with even features, and his jeans were fitted enough that Fisk spared his ass a second glance when he led the way into the restaurant.

"Do you travel much?" Michael asked.

"Not by plane. What about you?"

"Oh, uh, more than you'd think. I work with Doctors Without Borders."

Fisk reassessed the man. A surgeon who, rather than making the big bucks and gaining the sort of adoration and notoriety most surgeons crave, went around offering his services for free, or near enough.

"I'm—" Fisk broke off, because Michael was literally helping him with his coat, dear gods, he'd stepped into a Disney movie. Did that make him Hans? He didn't want to be Hans. And he also really needed to stop paying attention to the movies they play on buses, he STILL had the one decent song stuck in his head. "Sorry, I've just, never had a guy do that," he explained, when he realized he'd been silent a beat too long.

"Oh," said Michael. "Sorry, my parents wanted me to bring home an heiress, and I still find myself acting like a character in a Jane Austen novel when I'm nervous."

"Sorry, no trust fund here.” Just a kid from Chicago turned con artist turned fugitive. On a date with an upper class surgeon.

"Probably why you're so likeable," said Michael. "I'm sorry, that's a bit rude of me, I'm not saying everyone born to wealth is unlikable, or that I'm glad you don't have a trust fund out of some weird, upper class urge to romanticize the lives of people with less wealth—not that you look poor!"

Fisk snickered at how earnestly the man was correcting himself. "I traveled from Nevada to Florida on public transport with the last of my money, if I don't look poor, I'm better at faking it than I thought."

Michael laughed too. "I'm sorry for rambling. And for apologizing so much. I'm an excellent doctor, but I can't cure foot-in-mouth-itis,” he said.

"An excellent doctor, huh?"

"Yeah, actually, I am."

He was confident and proud, chin lifted slightly, but not arrogant. Just a statement of fact, with a slight teasing edge, like he expected Fisk to challenge him.

"You're pretty young to be a doctor."

"I'm twenty four."

That was a year older than Fisk.

"What about you, though? What brings you from Nevada to Florida?"

"I'm the Zodiac Killer, looking for a new hunting ground," Fisk said dryly, right when the waitress walked up.

Michael actually, legitimately giggled. "Uhh, can I have a glass of white zinfadel and... Fisk, what do you want?"

"What's the cheapest, most fray boy beer you have?" Fisk asked the waitress.

"For beer, I'm afraid our lowest quality is Stella Artois. But we do have brightly colored vodka coolers."

"That sounds delightful, Renee,” Fisk said, glancing at her nametag.

Michael grinned at him as she hurried away to her other tables. “I knew you’d be good company.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” asked Fisk, and finally caved in and started in on the free bread on the table.

“Because,” said Michael, “Lonely people are the best company.”

Fisk snorted. “That obvious, huh?”

“Little bit. That’s okay, of course, I’m pretty lonely too.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed from you buying a total stranger dinner in an empty airport terminal.”

“Yes, well. Admittedly, some of it was you helping that old man earlier,” said Michael.

Fisk felt his face grow hot. Jack would’ve mocked him mercilessly for being enough of a loser to give away the last of his unmarked bills to an old man who’d lost his cane in a luggage mishap. Then, “So, this is some sort of pay-it-forward thing?”

“No,” said Michael. “It’s more of a, I mean—see, look, you’re blushing, like you’re embarrassed by me thinking you’re a good person, I used to apologize for treating people for free, but then I – I’m not explaining this well.”

Fisk brandished a piece of bread at him. “You get off on morality. Nothing gets you hotter than good deeds. Am I right?” he broke off when he realized Renee had come back with their drinks. He turned to her. “Dude bought me dinner because I gave a guy some cash so he could replace his cane, you can’t tell me he doesn’t have a weird morality kink.”

“Are you ready to order?” she asked, lips twitching.

Fisk absently ordered steak and fries, more interested in the shades of pink Michael was turning from Fisk’s bullshit psychoanalysis. When she left, Fisk leaned forward. “Nailed it, didn’t I?”

“No!” said Michael. “Are you purposefully timing things for her arrival?”

“No, that was just a happy accident. All right, all right, stop blushing. I’ll even things up, dude, ask me anything.”

Michael squinted at him. Then, “Why did you go from Nevada to Florida?”

“Things went south with my boyfriend. He stabbed me in the back, and I ditched him and the town. Figured I’d clear my head, travel a bit.” And, of course, escape the Feds, who (whom? No, it was who) had been set on him by Jack. But Michael didn’t need to know that.

The rest of the meal passed without further awkward entries by Renee, and Fisk slid his coat back on and retrieved his bag when Michael stood. The other man hesitated, staring at Fisk, and Fisk said, “We should probably wash up.”

Michael, who was turning even more vibrant shades of pink, led the way out of the restaurant, thanking Renee profusely for putting up with them, and then ventured into the men’s bathroom like he expected someone else to be there at 3 am.

Fisk pinned Michael to the door the minute it swung shut, and Michael made a surprised noise before he kissed Fisk back. Fisk was kind of surprised, he’d thought it would take longer for Michael to get with the program, but he wasn’t complaining. The kisses very quickly turned hot and open-mouthed, and the one time some poor fool tried to come into the restroom, Michael kicked it closed without taking his hands off of Fisk.

-

“Well,” Fisk said, perching on the sink as Michael washed his hands. Surgeon’s hands, Fisk had decided, were the best hands. “I should probably give you a heads up about the fact that you might be detained for questioning by the FBI.”

“Why on earth would the FBI detain me?” asked Michael.

Fisk sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He felt stupidly, irrationally guilty for getting off with him. “Because you slept with a fugitive. Don’t worry; as long as you don’t mention this little chat, you should be on your way.”

“How much of what you told me was a lie?” Michael said quietly. His tone was unexpectedly sharp, more like a surgeon than any other time he’d spoken.

“None of it, actually, I just… left some parts out.”

He glared at Fisk. “Like what?”

“Like the fact that my ex-boyfriend and I are conmen, and his betrayal was ratting me out.”

“Tell me,” said Michael softly, and Fisk did.

“What a douchebag,” Michael said when Fisk was done explaining how he got here, how Jack called him to give him a ‘head start’, how that was all the warning Fisk got before he had to flee. “And he’s not going to be charged so long as they get a conviction?”

“Nope.”

Michael was looking at him strangely.

“It’s not like I didn’t know. He warned me, he always said not to trust him, and I did anyway.”

“Do they have any evidence besides what’s in your bag?” Michael said, turning his considering gaze to the backpack.

“Just what Jack’s said, but this is pretty damning.”

Michael frowned at him for a moment. Then, “I smuggle medicine out of places like Canada so I don’t have to turn away people for lack of supplies. I can probably fit the money in the secret pouches on my bag.”

Fisk’s head swam. “What?” he said.

“I think you’re a good person. I think Jack is a bad person. So I’m going to save your skin. Now, get the money out, I’ll explain the plan while we pack it away.”

Fisk couldn’t get any more screwed – not even if Michael turned him in – so he decided to take the chance. Michael had clever fingers, Fisk had already established that, and he considered teaching Michael to pickpocket while he watched him carefully hide the money.

“All right. Here’s what you tell them,” said Michael. “Tell them you were Jack’s boyfriend, and you had a bad break up, and you want to travel to take your mind off things. You don’t know what he told them, but he was emotionally abusive and he used to tell you that if you left, he’d make sure you went to jail.”

“Shit, that’s good, okay.”

“I’m your respectable one night stand. I’ll tell them I offered you a volunteer position in Doctors Without Borders, and that I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“And what do you want in return?”

“If they let us go, I want you to actually volunteer. That’s all. Do a few years with us, you’ll love it, it’s fascinating work.”

It went down exactly like Michael promised it would, which was strange, because things never went according to plan with Jack (mostly because Jack laughed at Fisk’s careful plans). The FBI split them up at first, and Fisk put on his best battered housewife impression, and when they finally released him because they didn’t have any evidence without the money, Michael was scratching the ink-sniffing dog’s ears.

Fisk gave the dog an uneasy glance – not because he doubted his ability to seal stolen goods properly, but because he had bad experiences with guard dogs – but judging by the frustrated looks on Agent Todd and Agent Potter’s faces, they hadn’t been any more successful with Michael.

“We will extradite both of you if—” Potter was saying, but Michael was busy stroking the dog’s head and Fisk was about to pass out from relief.

“Come on,” Michael murmured, when the agents were done lecturing them, “it wouldn’t be very smart of us to miss our flight after all of this.”

“What’s Guatemala’s stance on same-sex marriage?” Fisk asked. “Because I’m putting a ring on that, before you can be seduced into letting someone else use your devious mind.”


End file.
